A sleepy bear
by MeredithsPhantom
Summary: Quick tumblr prompt whipped up on a whim. Yokozawa has trouble sleeping, and pictures of a certain editor-in-chief just might help. Oneshot.


He knows it's gotten particularly bad when he rouses once more from a fitful attempt at sleep.

Yokozawa turns over, trying to will his body to calm down,- to get it to cease pumping blood to places it has no business being this late when he had work in the morning.

Trying to sleep, he closes his eyes and tries to slow his breathing. _ He tries_ not to imagine Kirishima's heat next to him, washing over him, reminding him of the warmer, dark bedroom that usually lay waiting just three stations and a twenty-minute walk away.

What he feels now, giving it some thorough thought for the first time, really, isn't necessarily disappointment or anything like that at all-on this point he wants to be clear, it's just that…Yokozawa can't honestly remember the last time Kirishima touched him.

Between weekdays where Kirishima is chained to his desk until dusk, and Yokozawa's out wearing through his soles on his rounds, and between weekends where there's work to brush up on, or errands, and making sure to make plans to entertain and spend time with Hiyo, it seems as though there just aren't enough hours in the day left for the two of them.

He allows that maybe…something should be done about this. His eyes flicker over to the closet before he can stop himself, and while he has a clue what he could do, he hasn't got a clue how to go about it without being overwhelmingly embarrassed with himself.

But then again, what Kirishima doesn't know won't hurt him,

( Or embarrass Yokozawa further,) and in figuring he'll just make it up to the guy the next time he sees him, Yokozawa rises from his bed, making his way over to the closet to get the stupid magazine.

The 'magazine' was none other then the women's magazine featuring the interview and photoshoot pictures Kirishima had posed for recently. Against his better judgement he had ended up buying a copy, keeping it deep within the closet, too embarrassed to keep it out on the bookshelf for anyone to see.

Settling back down into a comfortable seating position on his bed, he flipped open the magazine to the desired page, until the image of Kirishima, stretched our and seated on an expensive looking couch, long legs crossed over each other and gaze cast off to the side.

He would never admit how good-looking he actually found the man, but he sometimes found it impossible to avoid getting unconsciously lost in staring at him whenever he wasn't paying attention.

With one hand holding the magazine, Yokozawa let his right hand slide up over his thigh, fingers trailing lightly over the pant material of his sleep clothes, until he brushed his hand over his crotch meaningfully, palming himself carefully through the thin cloth.

His chest is soon rising and falling with labored breathing, flush crawling across his face and down his nape. He parts his legs to allow for the now obvious bulge sitting beneath the tight material, quickly working himself into a full erection.

Wryly, Yokozawa notes to himself how little effort it takes these days with Kirishima on the brain to bring himself off, (not as if he would say such things out loud. Ever. Leave that kind of dirty conversation for perverts like Kirishima himself.)

Slicking his palm over his hot shaft in ever-increasingly frequent strokes, he soon finds himself stiff and straining. He swipes his thumb over the tip, foregoing any lotions for a more natural lubricant already leaking from his cock.

Eyes focused on the image in front of him, he lets out a soft, whining grunt, and in the next tug he gives himself, his mind is adrift in thoughts of how his stomach tends to curl pleasantly whenever Kirishima kisses him, or how he soon becomes short of breath whenever Kirishima pushes him down against the bed and refuses to let him up until one of them has reached some sort of an end.

It doesn't take too long to feel a familiar tightness building up inside of Yokozawa at the base of his spine, heat wrapped snugly around his shaft in his own self created channel, and all too fast he cries out, jerking and seizing up in place as he spills himself over his hand.

He cocks his head to the side, leaning back to catch his breath, sensitive skin flushed and hot as he continues to milk himself over his own fingers still wrapped around his

now-limp cock.

Glancing down at the magazine, he quickly flips it onto his nightstand, grumbling to himself as he reaches for tissues to clean up.

"_Fucking good-looking bastard_."


End file.
